


deja senti

by revenge



Category: Blink-182
Genre: Boys Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Sunsets, Warped Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revenge/pseuds/revenge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>translation: i have already felt this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	deja senti

"You look like a fucking kid with your hair long like that," Mark says.

Tom nearly answers but Mark beats him to the chase concerning noise; he throws his beer bottle fifteen feet away and it shatters against the asphalt of the parking lot. It would've hit one of the vans if Mark had been aiming.

"That was intentional, right?" Tom asks.

Mark shakes his head. "I have a fucked sense of direction."

Tom looks at Mark, raising an eyebrow. He's got the height advantage. He could kick Mark square in the balls. Not because it would hurt, but because he likes being an obnoxious dick.

"Stop bluffing, idiot. You're not a badass, you threw close to the van but you didn't hit it because your morals mean shit to you and we don't have the money to replace that five-buck pit of hell."

It's funny when Mark nods, head lolling at the end and his mouth falling open in a half-hearted laugh.

"You know me, Tom," he grins.

As if that could ever be doubted.

Tom knows his tame attitude is just the other side of his personality that he saves for hot days. Hot days in fuckin', like, Florida, where they are now, closing out Warped Tour. Hot days where his brain is literally cooking inside of his goddamned skull and the only thing he can come up with is a sweet, honest smile and a rest of his hand on Tom's leg.

Pertaining to where they are now.

Mark has that sweet, honest smile stretched across his face. His hand's resting on Tom's leg and it's getting darker, sun slipping away with every minute they waste. To be completely honest, he's not sure whether to leave or get closer, to wrap his arms tight around Mark's waist and tongue-fuck his mouth. Everything is wholly confusing, and like, probably rightfully so, but he's not willing to deal with that.

Basically, there's too much happening at once and Mark's eyes are practically dulling out with each minute spent waiting for Tom to make up his mind.

"I know you fucking want me," Mark tells Tom.

It should be a turnoff that Mark's breath smells like alcohol and cigarettes and greasy diner food. There's some metal band screeching on the mainstage, amplified noises of the shitty chords forcing the windows of the bus to tremble.

He leans farther against the side of the bus with a breathy laugh. The air is thickening carrying the promise of evening.

"Should that make a difference?" Tom questions.

Mark's hand slips up his shirt to his abdomen. They've touched. As in, they've touched before now for comfort or for jokes, but this time the fingertips feel warmer and the hand is careful.

This time, intimacy isn't implied, it's exercised actively; terrified pupils dilating with the undiscovered purpose to blend into the carelessly spread pallet of roses and violets dappled over the canvas of a blank sky.

As Tom's eyes study the orange horizon, a hand wraps softly around the unshaven back of his neck where the hairs are pricking him every two seconds.

It fucking kills seeing Mark smile like that when he shivers.

"Are you going to regret me?" Mark asks him. Mark's adam's apple jerks and his teeth relentlessly chew on his bottom lip. Uncertainty wavers around his words as close to an imperfect line as it can be.

Some kid drives by, the beginning to Mixtape by Brand New blasting out of his tinny car speakers. The guitars sound distorted and miserable, thrumming half-heartedly along with their syncing heartbeats.

Tom stares down at Mark. "I hope not."

They kiss, and the swell of the drums matches the rush of blood through their ears, pounding against the sides of their skulls in time with the snare.


End file.
